


The Artist

by Dat_Patriot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Art, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, artist!lock, i'm trying to tag my triggers, mentions of child death, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dat_Patriot/pseuds/Dat_Patriot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock uses his deductive skills to paint people for who they are. What he finds in Dr John Watson will take more than one canvas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Artist

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter: before John Watson

When Sherlock was in grade school, he scribbled a picture of his teacher in the margins of his math homework.  He was never much of one for paying attention in class when he could learn from reading his texts, and so he became used to occupying his mind with observing everything around him and copying it to paper. Today, he decided to focus on how Mrs. Mills wasn’t wearing her wedding ring.

It was a small detail, but to Sherlock, it spoke so much. Sparked so many questions for which he could hypothesize the answers. His scribble ended up becoming a detailed sketch of the naked hand, dented and wrinkled and giving off a distinct feeling that something was _missing_.

Upon collecting his paper, Mrs. Mills became very still, just staring at the page and then to Sherlock and then back again. She cleared her throat and moved on, leaving only a note of _‘pay attention in class’_ next to the image upon returning it.

It was a week later when she announced that she was to be addressed as Miss Mills.

 

Sherlock did not grow up interested in the arts—he found the sciences to be vexing and studied them with great fervor, especially forensic sciences. It wasn’t until he was in university when he decided to take a criminology class when his artistic skills would be of use again.

His professor handed out leaflets of paper one day before standing in front of the class, “everyone, take this piece of paper in front of you, and what I want you to do is draw a head-shot of someone else in the class.”

The class groaned in unison before being silenced, “alright, before you complain any more, does anybody know why I could possibly want you to do this?”

“Sketch artists are often hired to take physical descriptions of a suspect and draw them to likeness for police records and comparisons from witness accounts,” Sherlock voiced from the back of the room.

The entirety of the class turned to stare.

His professor just snapped his fingers, “yes, right on the mark there, Holmes.” He turned to the blackboard and wrote down a simplified definition before he went on, “sketch artists are often hired to speak to witnesses of criminal acts and form a visual of the suspect for the police to use. Often times these sketches prove useful in narrowing down suspects and catching the proper criminal.”

He motioned to the papers, “so, practice your sketch artistry, and then we’ll come up to the front and see if we can figure out who you drew.”

Sherlock stared at his paper for a moment, debating blowing off the assignment. It was just a time-filler before the Christmas holiday, and not even an instructive day. Then he looked up and he _saw_.

As this class scribbled away, he saw so many things. A mustard stain on someone’s trousers, the remnants of a condom wrapper stuffed haphazardly into a backpack, the intermittent scratch of a girl with eczema on her left arm.

He mentally shrugged, then put his pen to paper.

A half hour later, the professor spoke up again, having scribbled down his own mug shot. He held it up in front of himself and addressed the room, “Right, then. Who can tell me who this is?”

It was an almost comically characterized depiction of the Queen, her hair just a mess of scribbles and her jewelry drawn with visible and comic sparkles. The class laughed and went up one by one. Sherlock could automatically tell who almost all of them were, except for the ones where only the hair was drawn, or half of it was missing, but a moment’s deduction kept him consistently correct. Most of the class was stumped for the majority of them, and there was a certain consistency in the grade of the art.

They were all appalling.

At his turn, he set down his pen, and strode to the front before turning his page.

The class was silent.

Sherlock had drawn a full three-quarter sketch of his classmate; hair disheveled like it usually was, a stain drawn in on the collar of his shirt, and even bags under the eyes that matched perfectly to—

“Hey, that’s me…” Sebastian Wilkes spoke up from the center of the room.

“Correct.” Sherlock intoned before moving to go to his seat when his professor stopped him, snatching up the paper.

“By God, Holmes, you have yourself a real talent there!” He exclaimed, eyes drinking up the elaborate hatching and cross hatching that recreated Wilkes’ likeness on the page. He pointed to the visibly drawn in stain and asked, “what’s that supposed to be?”

“Semen.”

The class went silent.

Feeling slightly at a loss, Sherlock explained, “On Wilkes’ collar there is a stain that could only be semen judging by the transparency and even more likely given by the condom wrapper stuffed in the side pocket of his satchel. Given that Wilkes has not fidgeted once while sitting means that he was on the giving end of the arrangement, or else his discomfort would have shown when he sat down. However, given the visible redness of his lips, it is easy to hypothesize that the relations were, in fact, of the oral variety--”

Sherlock’s explanation was abruptly cut off by Sebastian Wilkes hurling his text book across the room straight towards the blackboard, where it hit with a deafening smack.

Sebastian’s heavy breathing filled the silence before he picked up his satchel and stormed off, looking equal parts embarrassed and infuriated.

 

Sherlock was quite averse to showing others his work from then on.

 

It wasn’t until his final year at university when he took a drawing class.  It mostly consisted of the monotony of still-lives and Sherlock very nearly left the class on the third day before his instructor announced that they would be having models come in for figure drawing.

The first woman to come in was not beautiful in the conventional sense. She had very exaggerated curves and long straight hair that fell across the ridges of her shoulder blades. Her face was hidden from Sherlock’s view, but he could have guessed it would be just an ordinary face.

However, she had a scar on her left calve that Sherlock could not tear his eyes from. As he began to sketch in the image with charcoal he observed and he thought.

By the end of the session, the model put on a robe to leave. As Sherlock passed her on his way out he mumbled just loud enough for her to hear, “I recommend you leave your boyfriend.  A relationship as abusive as yours can only end badly.”

She looked very much like she wanted to slap him, but Sherlock never gave her the chance, having already walked away with his drawing pad and supplies.

Sherlock would have then graduated university if it hadn’t been for the third model to come in for the class. It was a man, mid-twenties, tall, and sturdily built. He had a fair amount of facial hair that matched the straw color of his cropped cut.  Two small, hooped earrings pierced his ear and his nails were too dark in color.

This time what had him intrigued was the large tattoo that stretched from his right bicep and around to his back. It was the only part of the model Sherlock ended up sketching.

Afterwards, the model put on his clothes and walked right up to him, peering over the drawing horse to his work, “damn. That’s some skill you have.”

Sherlock’s diverted attention snapped back to his drawing pad, which he quickly snapped closed and followed up with a glare.

The model chuckled, “you know, you have to turn that in anyway, right? What’sit matter if I see it?”

“I’m not partial to others viewing my work,” Sherlock said tersely.

“What, so that includes me?”

Only silence answered him.

The model—he never did offer his name—laughed again, following as Sherlock began to leave the studio. “You know, I think I know something you’ll like. Might loosen you up a little.” He winked.

Sherlock just continued walking out of the building, “I’m not interested in anything you might offer.”

“Che, fine,” the model pulled out a small rolled wad from his bag and shoved it into the top of Sherlock’s supply case. “Just try that and see how you feel. I put my number in there in case you want more.”

Without a single word of reply, Sherlock continued down the street to his small flat just outside of the university campus, leaving the model behind and not turning back.

 

As it turned out, he did call the number for more. He called that number so many times that he added it to speed-dial. And the more he called, the more he had meetings in dark alleyways; the more meetings, the more needles plunging into his arm; the more needles, the less visits to class.

And the more Mycroft worried.

It was a Thursday afternoon when Mycroft walked into Sherlock’s flat to find him lying face up on the floor, half naked and shaking with the syringe and tunicate on the floor next to him. It was the day he should have graduated--should have done something with his life. Mycroft had promised him privacy until he left school, but to find his brother in such a state left him with few options.

Sherlock was sent to a rehabilitation center for a total of seven months, not all at once. Every time there was a break through, he would stay clean for a few weeks and then start right back up again, ending up in the same position staring at the ceiling and categorizing colors that didn’t exist. This cycle continued for years.

Sherlock claimed it was boredom.

Mycroft called it childishness.

Little did Sherlock know that an ample distraction would show up not three months after his last session at the center; wrapped in a war-worn package, complete with limp and woolen jumpers.

That was when Sherlock met John Watson.

 

 

=x=x=x=


	2. The Subject

“John, I need you.”

“Hm?”

John Watson looked up from his laptop screen to see his friend and flat mate situated on his stool in front of his easel and scowling at the deep olive color covering the canvas. Next to him, a high table sat covered in tubes of paint, bottles of pigment, a whole assortment of brushes and a few jars filled with murky water.

Sherlock waved his hand in a beckoning motion, “Come on, John, I haven’t got all day.”

Sighing loudly, John purposely shuffled his feet over to Sherlock’s work table, ready to refill the lazy git’s tea mug. Again. “Will it be two sugars or just the one, then?”

“What?” Sherlock looked up at John, confusion writ all across his face before quickly gaining track of the conversation. “No, no tea. John, I need you to find someone for me.”

John sighed, picking up the empty mug anyway and taking it to the kitchen, “Alright. Who?”

“Oh, no one specifically, just someone interesting,” Sherlock muttered. “Someone to go with this color…” He motioned to the green of the canvas.

John set the kettle to boil with a huff, “Sherlock, we’ve been over this. I’m not an artist! I can’t tell who you find interesting!”

“Sure you can,” Sherlock insisted, swiping at the canvas a few more times with his brush. “Just nab someone off the street. Give them twenty quid for their trouble.”

“Sherlock, it’s not about offering some random bloke money for you to paint them.”

“What is it about then?” Sherlock turned, icy eyes boring into John’s own rich blue.

John sighed, “Remember the last time you told me to ‘find someone’ for you? I didn’t know anyone else so I brought Sarah--”

“Ugh, Sarah,” Sherlock drolled, emphasizing the rolling of his eyes with a dramatic roll of his head. “Too simple, too easy to read. Too… _plain sight_.” Sherlock groaned, “There was nothing beneath the surface at all on her. Boring.”

“See! That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” John pointed accusingly at the supplies around Sherlock’s bench. “Her portrait came out as splotches, Sherlock. She wouldn’t look me in the eye for days! Thought we hated her or something. Especially with you muttering away--”

“I don’t mutter.” Sherlock interrupted indignantly.

“Yeah you do, whenever you’re painting someone.” John walked back over to the kettle as it clicked off, speaking up from the kitchen. “You mutter all about them. Who’s having an affair, where they work, how many Chihuahuas someone has--”

“You must understand, John, it’s highly abnormal for a single, middle-aged man to own more than five Chihuahuas--”

“It’s not about the dogs, you great git!” John shouted, his hands clunked down the gathered mugs onto the counter with more force than he anticipated. Rubbing a hand down his flushed face and sighing deeply, John turned. He shifted his gaze back to his flat mate, resigned. “If I find someone for you to paint, I better not hear a single complaint about it.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before offering a minute nod of his head in understanding.  He turned his focus back to the canvas as John steeped and fixed his cuppa, “I’ll need someone to go with this shade of green.”

“What kind of person?” John asked between sips. “Old, young? Man, woman?”

“Hm, probably a man.” Sherlock considered, tilting his head as he thought. “I’d say older, but not by much. Aim for late thirties. Strong.”

“Strong.” John repeated, nodding slowly. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

Sherlock just nodded and mumbled a ‘thank you’ before stepping down from his stool to grab the mug of tea that John had made for him out of habit.

 

=x=x=x=

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit brief, but it's a bit of a transition chapter so no worries~  
> //edited


	3. The Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watercolor.

Sherlock paced the room, dodging easels and art pads as he went. The flat was cluttered—far more cluttered than it had been when John had left for the surgery that morning. John should bring someone back with him on the way home, and then Sherlock could finally paint.

It wasn’t so much about the painting as John seemed to think. For Sherlock, it was dissecting the subject piece by piece and then putting them back together on the canvas that was fascinating. Drawing in the affairs in lines on the face, marking the eyes with the sorrow of a father’s passing… All the little details he gathered, all of the deductions he made beforehand were what made his pieces so spectacular.

So much so that a local art school had asked him to do a workshop for them. Sherlock could hardly turn down the deal fast enough. He did private portraits and sketches at his choosing, for his purposes. He didn’t even sell them, though some subjects had insisted on purchasing them.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had been one of those people. Sherlock had been as interested in his prematurely silver hair as his marital issues writ in the bags under his eyes. Everyone Lestrade showed it to said it was a magnificent likeness but couldn’t place how exactly Sherlock had pulled it off.

Sherlock would usually shrug it off with a simple “I painted what I saw” and leave it at that.

 

At that moment, however, Sherlock’s need to collect and interpret was running rampant. He needed an interesting subject to dissect with his eyes and recreate. He couldn’t get the same satisfaction out of simple still-lives, no. It had to be an individual with _depth_.

Sherlock’s head snapped up sharply, the sound of the front door opening having caught his ear. John was back and hopefully brought someone with him.

However, as Sherlock listened to the all-too-familiar trudge of John’s footfalls on the steps, he couldn’t help but notice that there wasn’t a second pair to echo them.

Sure enough, when John finally swung open the door, he was alone and looked entirely worse for wear.

“John, you’re back. Where’s--”

John held up a hand to stop Sherlock’s questioning before hanging up his jacket. Sherlock stayed dutifully silent as he watched his flatmate drag heavy feet to his arm chair and collapse with his head in his hands.

“I couldn’t get someone for you today.” He muttered through his hands, barely distinguishable. “Everything was… hectic at the surgery.”

Sherlock knew there was more to that, and so he waited, only moving to sit in the chair opposite John’s, nestled in between large stacks of art supplies.

Moments ticked by, but still he waited until John finally drew in a deep shuddering breath, “I lost someone today, Sherlock…”

Loss. John was in the army, though. He was a _doctor_ in the army. Loss of life was tragic if not uncommon. Perhaps the switch from loss on the battlefield to loss at home? That could be a contributing factor to John’s discomfort. Does he feel blame? Was he not on top form? Was there an accident? How could—

“It was a child,” John continued, clearing his throat.

Ah. That would explain it.

Sherlock waited for John to continue, prompting with a small hum and a steepling of his fingers. John looked up and watched the movement, face forlorn and wrinkles seeming more deeply carved than normal.

“I was in a normal appointment,” John began, settling back in his chair as he spoke, his eyes losing focus. “It was just a follow up for an older man, and I got a buzz on my pager. There had been an accident and a little girl had been hit by a taxi that had spun out.” John swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I ran to the ER and helped them to get the girl off the gurney and onto the table. She was… Her whole right side was bruising and I knew she had too much internal bleeding. I told the other doctors and the surgeon was scrubbing up to put her under…” John stopped, brow furrowing deeply and his eyes squeezed shut. “I grabbed her hand and looked her in the eye, told her it was going to be okay; that we were going to take care of her…”

John’s gaze locked with Sherlock’s, and he was momentarily overwhelmed by the slow-churning sorrow trapped within, “I watched the light leave her eyes, Sherlock…”

Sherlock held the gaze steadily, not challenging or even offering sympathy. John eventually breathed in deeply, his face starting to return to a healthier pallor, “I mean… It’s horrible to lose anyone, but to have a child just--” he sighed roughly. “It’s tough.”

“It’s okay, John,” was all Sherlock said. It was all the sympathy he felt he could appropriately express at the moment, and it seemed that John was fine with accepting it. He nodded in understanding and offered a tight smile.

“So… sorry I couldn’t get you your model.”

Oh, John was still worried about that? “No worry,” Sherlock waved him off, striding towards the kitchen. “Sit. Rest. Find one first thing in the morning.”

John couldn’t help the burst of a laugh that sparked. It was so very Sherlock to just accept his trouble and then… move on. It was one of his quirks that John could easily admit he rather liked. “Sherlock, would you mind setting the kettle on?”

“Already done John, do keep up.” The remark was said without heat, and left John chuckling tiredly in his armchair once more.

John yawned largely, “I’m just gonna rest here a bit and then…”

“Yes, John, fine.”

With a last stretch of a smile, John shuttered his eyes and dozed off almost immediately, leaving Sherlock alone in an almost hollow silence, only interrupted by his flat mate’s light breathing and the soft rumble of the kettle.

Sherlock moved to sit back in his chair and watched John sleep; the rise and fall of his chest, the slight twitch his right hand would give every now and then, the unconscious settling… But mostly he watched John’s face.

And he _observed_.

The man before him in the chair was a doctor; a man who cared for others—strangers—with the utmost care and attention, putting their needs far above his own…

With very little conscious thought, Sherlock stood from his arm chair and—without taking his eyes off John—shifted his stool and easel into the perfect line of sight. Picking up a 2H pencil, he began to lightly sketch what he saw in front of him.

Every now and then John would shift in his sleep, but stayed in relatively the same position, which was extremely convenient. He sat slumped in the chair; legs sprawled out slightly with his hands loosely dangling off the ends of the arm rests. His head was turned just to the side, resting against the back of the seat. John still held the weight of what had happened that day; lines of anxiety and sadness etched into his face that were not normally there. As pained as he looked, he was also captivating. Sherlock finished the rough sketch, and went back over it with a kneaded eraser, wiping away the excess graphite and lightening the already thin lines he had drawn.

Now he just needed a medium…

John mumbled something incoherent in his sleep before settling again with a grumbling sigh. Sherlock took a deep breath before getting up to grab some of the jars from the table and fill them with water from the tap, snatching up his brushes and tubes of watercolor on the way.

With a practiced flick of his wrist, Sherlock reached beneath his easel to adjust it, laying it completely horizontal before pulling his high stool forward. He took another lingering glance at John’s lax figure and began.

Color washed across the page; the oatmeal of John’s jumper, the warm red of his chair, the worn but sturdy brown of his shoes all came together to form the image of this man. The doctor. Sherlock finished the last of the bright colors with a slight flourish, the golden hues of John’s hair that barely masked the oncoming grey.

All he needed to finish now was the skin tone.

Sherlock fished around his tubes for a moment before being struck with inspiration and pushing them aside, reaching for his forgotten mug of tea instead. He grabbed a clean brush and took out a teaspoon of tea and placed it in a small petri dish he found. After diluting it with some water, he took it to the page.

This was always his favorite part.

He went to work on the shading, making note of the dents in John’s fingers to the faded wrinkles between his eyebrows. He went over it all again a few more times, each time adding a new layer of depth to both the painting and the character of the subject.

Sherlock dropped his brush with a slight clatter and stood back slightly to survey his work. It was his best one yet. The added sepia of the tea left the paper smelling just slightly of English Breakfast which Sherlock couldn’t help but admit added to the artwork. Taking a thin brush, he nestled his scribble of a signature along the image and turned to the task of cleaning his brushes while he waited for it to dry.

Just as he finished his task, John began to stir, stretching slightly in his chair and groaning as his joints popped, “Oh, Christ. Remind me to never fall asleep in this chair again.”

Sherlock offered a noncommittal noise as he refilled the kettle just in time for—

“Ah, tea’s gone cold.” John stood and walked into the kitchen with the ruined tea. “How long was I out?”

“Long enough for you to get a crick in your neck and spoil your tea,” Sherlock intoned, collecting his brushes from a drying rack.

“That’s very helpful, thank you,” John checked his watch before peering out the window when his eye caught sight of the easel in the corner. “What’s this?”

Sherlock’s arm shot out to grab the paper before John could reach it, “project.”

John eyed him for a moment before shrugging it off with a rub of his neck, “alright. You want Chinese tonight?”

Sherlock nodded before turning, sweeping off to his room with the painting, “menu’s in the second drawer.”

 

=x=x=x=

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> un-beta'd. enjoy~


	4. The Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charcoal.

If one thing was absolutely certain, it was that it is extremely difficult to take large breaths and remain as silent as possible in the midst of a chase.

Sherlock pressed himself as firmly as he could against the moist brick of the aged building. John stood right behind him, his breathing just as ragged.

“Do you think he’s spotted us?” John asked, only to be answered by the crack of a bullet against concrete. Small chunks of dust flew around them for a moment before settling, and John felt even more tense against his side.

The man they were hunting had been a suspect for one of Lestrade’s cases earlier that week. He’d called in Sherlock, knowing first-hand of his keen observational skills, and hoping to utilize them where his men had been stumped. Sherlock had known almost instantly who the perpetrator was, and Lestrade acted quickly, only to find the man out of town on business.

Sherlock, of course, decided to be the one to welcome him back.

This led them to chase the man across the London night and through the mist.

Next to him, John shifted, “okay, Sherlock. He’s got a gun, and he’s got us cornered.” He swallowed before continuing, his grip on his gun tightening, “I’m going to engage him, so I need you to go around the back while I’ve got him distracted.”

“What? John--”

“Sherlock, listen to me,” John interrupted him with a harsh whisper, his eyes flashing in the muted orange street lights. “I have a gun, and you don’t. I know how to use a gun, and I know how to provide a distraction without getting myself killed.”

Sherlock watched him, his brain momentarily silent as he took in everything about John Watson in that instant. He nodded once, gripping John’s shoulder tightly before turning back down the building to pull down a fire escape. Just as he was about to climb up the rusted ladder, Sherlock took another glance back to John.

The image burned into the darkness behind his eyelids.

Then there was gunfire, and Sherlock was climbing again, all the while hoping for John’s safety, but knowing he would be fine.

 

John’s plan had worked, in the end.

Though some collateral damage was unofficially necessary in that respect.

“So what exactly were you two thinking taking on an armed criminal by yourselves?” Lestrade asked them, crossing his arms in exasperation, blue and red lights casting colorful shadows across his face.

“Just that we were about to catch a dangerous individual,” Sherlock huffed, trying to stand up straight while having a medic pull him down to see his head. “It’s not like you were going to.”

“It’s three in the bloody morning!”

“No rest for the wicked!”

“Boys, please…”

Sherlock and Lestrade both shot looks to the doctor who was seated on the edge of the ambulance; a patch of white gauze slowly turning red was taped onto his cheek. He groaned slightly as he stood up, fidgeting with an ice pack in his hands. John was entirely exhausted, and as much fun as it was to chase down a murderer in the dead of night, the adrenaline had left his system.

It was time to go home.

Sherlock sighed before turning back to Lestrade, “Well, you have your man now. I suspect you’ll find that he was the thief all along if you look in the tool shed.” He turned around and swept over to his flat mate, “come along, John.”

 

Finally back at the flat, Sherlock quickly divested himself of his coat and scarf and began digging through his art supplies. John followed behind him, looking tired but happy, despite being bandaged and banged up. Sherlock however, was almost twitching with energy. That had been one of the most exciting evenings he’d had in a long time.

And John, well. John had been fantastic.

He heard his flatmate turn on the kettle behind him and felt his lips twitch up in a smile. Who would’ve thought that this unassuming man…

Sherlock shook himself, returning to the task at hand. He needed to find—

“You want any tea?” John’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

Sherlock waved his hand vaguely in response as he pulled a paper cutter from behind a bookcase. “Ah! Here you are!”

John poked his head out of the kitchen, confused, “what?”

“Not you, John, carry on with your tea. Two sugars for me, thanks.”

John muttered something distinctly unsavory about his flatmate, but Sherlock ignored it in favor of ripping a giant sheet of thick paper from one of his notepads. All of the tabletops were covered in jars of color, brushes, and pencils, so he just settled for the floor to work. Lining it up carefully, Sherlock proceeded to cut the giant sheet to a more manageable size, the blade making a smooth _‘shhnk’_ as it sliced through the paper.

Just as Sherlock finished his cutting, John came into the living room with two steaming mugs, setting one down on a small patch of clear space on the coffee table. “What are you using that for?” He asked in all curiosity.

“Art.”

“Yes, thank you, I’d gathered that,” John couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “I meant of what?”

Sherlock attached the paper to a large clip board and set it up on his easel, pulling his stool up to it, “not of _what_. Of _whom_.”

He heard John sigh in defeat from his armchair as he unrolled a small fabric holder onto the table beside him. Every small pouch stitched into the black fabric was filled with sticks of charcoal, running from the delicate willow and vine varieties to the heavier compressed charcoal and to the accenting white sticks he planned to use later on.

Plucking a thin stick of vine from its placeholder, Sherlock began to sketch the image that had taken a special place in his mind palace over the last few hours.

John stood at the ready in front of worn brick, his gun held securely in his hands just above waist height. His legs were slightly bent and tense underneath his jeans, and his comfortable leather shoes became his very own urban combat boots. A street lamp illuminated a crescent of his body, shaping out the profile of his face while implying the rest of the ready form behind it. His entire figure was the embodiment of a soldier in the streets of London. The image wouldn’t form fast enough.

The sketch was nearly complete before he realized that his subject had been watching him. Sherlock’s eyes darted away from the paper and locked with John’s.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat for just a moment, though it seemed to stretch on for centuries.

John looked away first, though not intentionally. A great yawn broke through their visual connection that shook them both out of their small trance.

Sherlock cleared his throat slightly, “you should get to bed, John.”

John stood from his chair and cracked a sleepy smile, “you should, too. It’s not every day we go running after a criminal.”

“It was rather fun wasn’t it?” Sherlock chuckled, silently enjoying how John’s grin was interrupted by another yawn. “Bed, John. Go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” came a muttered response. “You, too eventually, yeah?”

“Yes, John. Now go.”

“G’night.”

And just like that, Sherlock was alone with his thoughts and a grey-line sketch.

 

The dawn was just peaking through the curtains of 221B when Sherlock finally felt his last stick of dark charcoal crumble under his fingers. He wiped at his forehead, leaving a faint line of black behind from the mess on his hands.

Wiping his hands on one of the few clean chamois around him, Sherlock finally grabbed a stick of white charcoal. He snapped the stick in half and tested the edge on a piece of scrap paper, rubbing it down until it was a near-fine point. He set to work. Since the paper he had chosen was white, it was a simple matter of going over present highlights and adding refined edges to the clothing. Wrinkles in the leather made an appearance, tension in the lines of his feet, a firm grip on a shining gun. A noise escaped unbidden from the back of Sherlock’s throat as he defined the lines of this soldier’s hair and the determination in his face.

Backed by the black and white grid-work of brick, the intensity of the scene seemed to almost emanate from the page.

Sherlock backed up a bit, surveying his work from a distance to ensure everything looked right. Breathing a sigh of relief, he signed his work and reached for a can of sealant spray to preserve it. He shook the can and using broad strokes, covered it in two solid layers of sealant, making the air around him fog with fumes.

His feeling of accomplishment was cut short as a sharp chirping sound filled the flat. A loud thud sounded from upstairs before the thumping of feet rushed down the stairs. John stood in nothing but a white short-sleeve shirt and a pair of boxers, his gun clutched almost as an afterthought in his left hand. His eyes were focused.

John’s eyes scanned the scene before him, and after a moment his readiness quickly turned to aggravation. “Dammit, Sherlock, how many times have I told you to at least open a window when you spray that stuff!” Matching his words, John stuffed his gun in the back of his waistband and threw both large windows open to air out the fumes. If the chirping of the alarm hadn’t deafened him so thoroughly, Sherlock was sure he could hear his flatmate cursing him yet again for an unnecessarily early morning.

=x=x=x=

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chamois: a cloth (often made from clean animal hide) used primarily for smudging in charcoal/pastel art [as well as other things, but that's what's relevant~]
> 
> un-beta'd. enjoy~
> 
> //i'll very likely go back and edit this


	5. The Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oil painting.

Months flew by at 221B in a whirl of gunfire and paint splatter—quite literally.

It was a pleasant surprise that other cases had followed the first, and that was more due to Sherlock’s attitude on scene than a lack of skill. Many of the officers on site were loath to have assistance, especially from someone with the social skill of a… well, a lack of social skill.

Sherlock had even set up a website for himself: The Art of Deduction. It was still a work in progress, but John was rather fond of the blog entries on it. Many of which involved identifying a person’s career based on the calluses and the locations of ink stains on their fingers.

John would have been skeptical if he hadn’t seen it done with his own eyes.

Yet through all this, Sherlock still found time to sit down and devote hours to his art. Since his charcoal piece, Sherlock had sketched, scribbled, and doodled images of John almost a hundred times over. Sketch book after sketchbook were slowly filled with figures that slowly grew shorter and stockier and just a little softer around the middle. The unrecognizable faces suddenly became more square with cropped hair and a knobby nose and soft eyes.

It was almost more shocking that Sherlock hadn’t noticed this change at first.

It was… frustrating.

Like the opposite of an artist’s block, Sherlock’s mind was overloaded with different images of his flatmate—so many possibilities, so many poses, so many facets, so many new mediums to explore, it was—

Actually, it was exhausting.

Keeping them all from John was no easy task, either. The man was perceptive when he chose to be.

“What’re you working on, Sherlock?”

“Sketch.”

“Can I have a look?”

“No.”

John huffed a bit, obviously put out. With a slight wave of his hand he turned and trod over to his chair. Sherlock quickly peeked over at him from behind his large sketchbook, noting the stuttered breathing and agitated twitching in his flat mate’s jaw. John was genuinely upset. What?

John had no reason to be upset, Sherlock thought. He didn’t want John to see his projects of him. He didn’t want anyone to see them. Sherlock sat up straighter at that thought. That was new, though, wasn’t it? Usually John was the first person he would show his art to. He would seek his opinion, not on color choice, perhaps, but general things.

Did John think he no longer valued his opinion?

Turning back, he watched John try to concentrate on the paperback novel in his hand. It was obvious--he was dejected.

Sherlock cleared his throat as he wiped off a brush he was using, “you know that it’s not… It’s not that I don’t value your opinion, John,” he studiously looked away from his flat mate as he spoke. “I simply do not feel a need to share these particular pieces with others.”

John just blinked back at him, hurt and understanding fighting for dominance in his head before he gave a quick nod and simply said, “alright.”

That was a close one.

 

Sherlock had actually decided to plan his next big John project. Besides his sketches, he only had two large works of John that he deemed completed. It was time for another, and yet...

Planning had never been easy for Sherlock when it came to art. Most of the time, it was spontaneous or inspiration that came in the heat of the moment with a client sitting in a stool before him.

Yet he wanted this piece to have some sort of thought to it.

Sherlock pulled out a small pocket-sized sketch book and began to jot down lists; things that John did, things that John liked or didn’t like. Once he had several things written down he crossed off the ones he deemed less than quality for painting subject matter.

After a moment of careful contemplation, he ripped out the sheet, crumpled it in his fist and threw it into the flaming hearth.

A moment later, Sherlock heard the sound of the front door opening, the howling wind chasing his flat mate inside before it could be shut out completely.

Out of spite, Sherlock ripped out and threw another page into the flames, taking satisfaction in the charring of the page and the indignant shout from John at the door.

 

There were three instances that kept coming to mind whenever Sherlock’s thoughts wandered to his next John-related project. Perhaps that was why he was struggling so much with where to begin—each idea fought for the forefront of his mind constantly. The first had happened a couple of weeks ago when John had insisted they hold a Christmas party in their flat.

“It’ll be fun,” John said.

John said a lot of things.

So he had been pressured into tidying the sitting room and kitchen, storing away his precious (and expensive) supplies lest John decide to take cleaning into his own hands. It had been somewhat worth it, to have a smiling Mrs. Hudson sitting in his chair as he played a festive tune, to watch Lestrade fight whatever sexual inclinations he had towards an oblivious Molly...

Yet it had been the most worth it to see John, leaning against the mantle with a beer in his hand and sporting that God-awful Christmas jumper. His face had been illuminated by the fairy lights, leaving his features softened and his face smooth of age. Though it seemed to go quite beyond that. Yes, it was John himself who was glowing. John with his smiling face and his jumper and that damn Father Christmas hat on the skull.

That moment made that entire evening worth it.

It had also taken up several pages in his notebook dedicated entirely to the composition alone.

 

The second was far more similar to his last project than he preferred and yet Sherlock found he couldn’t shake the idea completely. A case had gone particularly sour not a week after the New Year. Sherlock had ended up waterlogged and near hypothermic after being shoved into the Thames and John was none-too-happy that he had to find out through a text from Donovan at the hospital.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going after him!” John shouted, voice reverberating off of stark-white walls.

“I had to get to him before he left the country!” Sherlock had countered, an indignant scowl fighting behind racking shivers. “There was no time to contact you with you at the surgery!”

“Oh, so now this is my fault?” John’s face was glowing red. Their argument had been blessedly interrupted by a nurse who gave them release forms. John remained silent through the entirety of the check-out.

The cab ride to the flat from the hospital had been tense and silent—John obviously torn between staring angrily out the window and checking up on his still shivering form. As endearing as it was, John looked ready to snap at any instant.

It was only made worse when they made it up to the flat.

“What the hell are you doing here!” John’s voice boomed out of the open door and down the stairs Sherlock was slowly climbing. Upon reaching the top, he noticed their living room packed with what seemed to be the entirety of the Yard.

Lestrade walked over from an overflowing bookshelf, narrowly avoiding Sherlock’s easel, his lips pursing guiltily, “look, we have reason to believe that Sherlock may not have been in his right mind while on the case...”

The words left unsaid made John’s eyes widen and his jaw tightened to dangerous tension. A drugs bust.

Sherlock was intrigued.

John closed his eyes for a brief moment, bringing a single hand to rub at his forehead before he spoke with such calm, it was deafening.

“Sherlock has just come back from hospital,” John’s gaze scanned the small crowd in front of him. “You decide to not only invade our flat on the day of his return, but accuse him of _using_ \--” John cleared his throat, mentally gathering himself.

“Get out.”

“John, you have to understa--”

“Get out!” John shouted finally, the tension snapping after the long day. His entire face seemed pulled taught in his anger, though the creases in his brows formed valleys along his profile. His nostrils flared like an angry bull, blinded by red and ready to charge as his teeth ground together. Sherlock could almost feel that if he were in the presence of a wolf, its hackles would be raised, its teeth bared and snarling, and its tail lashing out in warning.

John looked absolutely monstrous.

And Sherlock could hardly look away.

Once the yarders had filtered out, John had made them both tea, sat Sherlock in his chair next to the growing fire, and wrapped him in a blanket with aggressive care. When he had finally calmed enough that his shoulders settled, Sherlock grabbed his sketchbook and began to copy the image from memory--the fact that the aggressive behavior had been in the name of his honor making it all the more exciting.

John had insisted on a couple of “talks” after that incident, mostly to make sure that he would text John, no matter what, when he went out for a case. They had been made tolerable by the look of relief in John’s face when he confirmed that he was, and had remained, completely clean.

 

The last idea was... different.

At least, the entire context felt different.

Two days ago they had gone to Angelo’s for a late dinner. John had been in a good mood for most of the day, and Sherlock couldn’t help but let it affect him as he composed. It had been John’s idea to go out.

It had snowed that afternoon, yet the air was calm, their warm puffs of breath mingled as they walked the short distance to their favorite place. Angelo had seated them at their usual table and took both of their orders when John surprised them both by asking for a candle.

The mood changed dramatically with that single candlestick.

“So, your day was good then?” John started, digging into his ravioli with relish. He was always the one most involved in idle chatter.

“It was, in fact,” Sherlock replied, taking bites of his eggplant lasagna; after a day and a half of negligent fasting, he’d built up quite a hunger.

John smiled, “glad to see you eating. Finished your projects then?”

Sherlock hummed his ascent, “two of them. Acrylic based paintings.”

“Ah,” John nodded, subconsciously fiddling with his fork. “Could I see them, then?”

Sherlock tilted his head, considering. John was licking his lips, a sign of nervousness or worry, likely the former. His hand was clenching and unclenching around his fork in a way that showcased his anticipation. Positive or negative was more difficult to determine, however...

“Of course,” Sherlock nodded, enjoying how John’s face visibly brightened at the prospect of being the first to view Sherlock’s work.

Not that John seeing his work first was any sort of novelty at that point. In fact, he had even delayed showing Mrs. Hudson a portrait of herself until John came home from a week-long conference, just so he could get his input. Sherlock sat in pondering silence as he mulled these facts over. John had always been an important asset to his work... he’d been an asset to many things, when he thought about it.

Before Sherlock could attempt to voice any of this, the world darkened around them.

John looked up, dropping his fork to the table and shifting in his seat, opening his body to the room, ready. Not a minute later, Angelo came out from the kitchens holding a tall candlestick in front of him, “well, the power’s gone out. Seems to be happening all about by the looks of it.”

Sherlock glanced out the window, noting the yellow flashing of the traffic lights and the soft glow of the emergency lighting systems.

Angelo turned to the rest of the room, gathering the attention of the other few tittering diners, inviting them to stay for their meals or be prepared a take-away.

John turned back to Sherlock, his eyes alight with mischief illuminated by the weak light of the candle between them, “what do you think? Up for a candle-lit dinner?”

He probably hadn’t meant that like it sounded, Sherlock thought. But it was something in the way John was looking at him, the way he was smiling and had a spot of red sauce on the side of his mouth. They way the muted golden light of the candle made his eyes dark and deep, and his face round and soft. It was the way John was smiling, looking directly at him with nothing less than undisguised affection and a hint of challenge. Though it was not at all like the look he saw on Christmas, the casual appreciation and amusement, no. This one was hungry.

They ended up staying long after the other patrons had left and their candle had snuffed out into a puddle of molten wax between them.

 

In the end, Sherlock hadn’t decided on one painting at all. He pulled out his oil paints and stared at the three freshly stretched and gessoed canvases perched on the edge of his easel. Squirting small amounts of paint around the rim of his palette, he took a seat at his stool and took a deep inhale of the room. One painting alone could never properly capture his friendship with John Watson. John, with his many facets and quirks and emotions. John who was so quick with to applaud, defend, and laugh with. Rolling up his sleeves, Sherlock picked up his largest brush, held it to the first canvas, and breathed.

 

=x=x=x=

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A work done in three pieces is called a triptych, which is what Sherlock will create.
> 
> This chapter was made to focus more on John than on the art, a bit of a look into how Sherlock is adapting his relationship with his flatmate (and subject matter).
> 
> Terribly sorry this took so long, I had a bit of the same trouble Sherlock had.
> 
> Un-beta'd. Enjoy~


	6. The Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ballpoint pen.

A single beam of sunlight filtered its way through shuttered blinds, landing squarely across sleeping eyes. With a small grumble, Sherlock turned himself over and away from the window, refusing to completely open his eyes to the morning. He took a deep breath. The scent of warmth and sweat and musk and _John_ filled his lungs before he released it into the air.

He cracked an eye open.

John’s sleeping face lie cradled within the plush valley of a pillow; his breathing soft, warm, and wet. The single sheet did little to hide his nude form beneath, scrunched as it was around his hips and legs. His arms were tucked under the pillow, flexed and formed in the golden light in a way that accented the muscle beneath skin.

John shifted in his sleep, his entire body folding in on itself before relaxing back into the same position, almost as if he were subconsciously embarrassed by the scrutiny.

Not that Sherlock hadn’t had enough time to stare the night before. John had been incredible. The sex itself... could have been better, but they weren’t accustomed to each other’s bodies yet. There would be time to improve and perfect the act. It was an experiment of sorts, as John had called it, his face alight with afterglow and satisfaction. It was definitely an experiment they agreed would have to be trialed over and over and over...

But that was last night.

Sherlock had not known what to expect in the morning, but it was not the overwhelming sense of affection and something akin to pride that he had this man--this wonderful, multi-faceted, _incredible_ man—in his bed.

The influx of foreign emotions was overwhelming to say the least.

Sherlock sat up as carefully as he could, the slide of bare skin on cotton a quiet whisper over London traffic. The urge to run was still there, to separate himself from John and the strange feeling he caused just below his sternum; a feeling that had not left since his first sketch of his flatmate, if he were honest with himself.

One sleepy murmur of Sherlock’s name from those wetly-parted lips banished his fears almost instantly. He smiled as he found himself filled with a different urge entirely, one he was far more familiar with. Carefully, Sherlock reached over John’s sleeping form to the bedside table and plucked up the simple ballpoint pen and notebook that sat there.

As quietly as he could, he began to sketch.

The early morning light cast excellent shadows over John’s form. The white of the sheet turning a soft ochre and enhancing the tan of John’s skin. It was a shame he only had a black pen and he cursed inwardly at his use of lined paper.

But, needs must.

The quiet skritching of the pen on the paper tablet added to the orchestra of sounds floating about the room. The muffled white noise of traffic, the slide of cotton on skin, his lover’s even breathing--all filled the artist’s mind with such beautiful melodies that he lost track of time as he sketched.

First it was John’s back, the shadow of Sherlock’s upper body cast across it and noted with a thin cross-hatching lines. The dip of his spine was given special attention with hatching lines of varying lengths, all coming to what Sherlock mentally deemed the exclamation point of John’s body at the sacral dimples above his bottocks.

He tore the page off the pad and set the sketch aside.

Next were John’s forearms, the knobs of his elbows catching the light where they shined with a light sheen of sweat. He captured how they gripped and buried underneath the pillow, strong yet seeking comfort.

The sketch was ripped off the pad as well.

After the arms, came John’s legs, still covered in the sheet and bent at the knees.

_Rip._

John’s hair, each individual strand carefully accounted for.

_Rip._

John’s closed eyes, fluttering slightly at the lashes as he dreamed.

_Rip._

His lips, still moist, steadily breathing out and in, out and in...

_Rip._

His one foot which had shifted out from the covers, with neatly trimmed nails and lovely arches.

_Rip..._

 

=x=x=x=

 

It was only when the heat on his upper body became too great that John Watson emerged from sleep, groggy and a little sore in only the best ways. He smiled to himself and breathed in, filling his lungs to capacity before releasing it in a sigh of contentment and residual pleasure.

What a night it had been. All of that.

He smiled even wider, and wondered if he was already a victim of that disease called ‘love’.

It sure felt like it.

It also felt really damn _hot_.

Peeking open a cautious eye, John prepared himself to meet the bright light of the mid-morning sun. He was fortunate enough to instead have a face full of brown curls tickling his eyelids. A soft wuff of breath left him as he noted his friend—lover, even—was squished up against him with his face turned into his shoulder.

He also seemed to be drooling a bit.

John took a half-second to deem it more endearing than gross.

Carefully extricating himself from where Sherlock was nudged against him, John pulled his arms out from beneath the down pillow and shook out the pins-and-needles feeling in them.

A papery rustling caught him by surprise.

John propped himself up on his elbows, looking over Sherlock’s curled form to see dozens of leafs of paper scattered across the bed. One or two of them were crumpled up and it looked like a small pile was forming on Sherlock’s vacant pillow. Taking care not to over-balance, John reached for the closest ones and held them up for inspection

His breath caught.

Filled with quiet urgency, John reached around to grab more leaflets, adding them to the stack clutched in his hand. He even managed to use a free foot to grab one between his toes from the far side of the bed.

Soon John had a substantial stack of small sketches in his hands and he couldn’t stop staring at them.

John was no artist—and definitely no proper critic—but there was something extraordinary in the simple black and white drawings. They were all of him. Every last one. They were all amazing. The detail was simple, but the textures seemed to jump up from the lined paper.

More than that, John looked amazing.

Not that he was drawn with a Grecian deity’s physique, but it was simply John Watson, as he was, asleep—

And absolutely, undeniably loved.

He couldn’t explain it, but it was there. Words they had never spoken to each other sketched out in a universal language. John’s chest felt tight and weightless at the same time.

Sherlock shifted closer to him in his sleep and John noticed the uncapped pen still clutched tightly in his hand, as if ready, even in sleep, for when inspiration struck.

Swallowing past his closed throat, John couldn’t help the small laugh that left him. The whisper of a chuckle that slowly grew in volume in a way he could not control. Next to him Sherlock blinked open sleepy eyes to see John smiling at him like a ray of sunshine with messy hair.

“Morning,” Sherlock smiled back and _there_ it was. Blatant, radiant, unabashed affection shone off that ivory face. God, he was even waxing poetic. If he wasn’t just as smitten as Sherlock seemed to be... well.

“Morning, you,” John returned, framing Sherlock’s face with his hands and kissing him. His cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids, his chin, his lips, all of him.

Sherlock bent forward to return the attention when he felt the stack of papers against his arm. His eyes quickly darted from the papers to John and back again, trepidation radiating from his previously drowsy frame.

John ran his fingers along the page edges, flipping them like a fan beneath his thumb. He turned to his lover, “I’m keeping these, you know.”

Sherlock just blinked for a moment before smiling widely and all but tackling John back into the sheets. Laughter echoed in the sunlit room as the wrestled with the blankets and, briefly, with the forgotten pen. Sherlock ran his hands along the contours of John’s face--the face he’d spent most of the morning sketching, the face he planned to spend the rest of his life learning.

He pressed a chaste kiss to his John’s lips and smirked, “keep those if you want. I’m keeping you.”

 

=x END x=

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it. Hope you enjoyed~


End file.
